


The Silver Thread

by Aloysia_Virgata



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Pre-The X-Files: I Want To Believe (2008)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:48:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26915395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aloysia_Virgata/pseuds/Aloysia_Virgata
Summary: For @frangipanidownunder who requested: Hot prompt: Mulder washes Scully's back.For @fashionbooksboozefeminism who wondered about Scully’s 40th birthday
Relationships: Fox Mulder & Dana Scully, Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Kudos: 61





	The Silver Thread

Night, cash, Sonia and James. Mulder leads her down the faded carpet and wood-paneled halls of the old Poconos resort, nearly empty nine days past Valentine’s. Everything they own that isn’t in their bag is in the car outside. They stop in front of room 314.  
  


Scully, a bobbed brunette in yoga pants and a hoodie, slouches against the wall. “If this turns out to be a reboot of The Shining, Mulder, I’m going to be really pissed.”  
  


He works the key into the scuffed lock. “The Haunted Murder package wasn’t in my budget, don’t worry.”

They head inside, Mulder shutting the door behind them. The room is a perfectly preserved 70’s time capsule, amber-hued with shag carpet and velour club chairs. There’s a zigzag bedspread and a macramé plant hanger with a dusty silk fern on it.

“Groovy.” Mulder sets their duffel on the floor.

“Wow,” Scully says, peering around. Her mother would have killed for this room back when she hosted fondue parties and wore hostess pajamas. “Mulder, I feel like I’m in high school again. I’m going to need some blue eyeshadow, then we can play a few rounds of _Mystery Date_.”

Mulder examines a small porcelain shepherdess on the lamp stand. “Forty is the new sixteen. Go look around the corner.”

Scully picks her way past the walnut dresser and a floral folding screen. A yelp of laughter escapes her. “Mulder!”

The tub is glossy and red, heart shaped, with veined mirrored walls behind. It’s piled with bubbles, steam rising from the surface. A bottle of something called Sham-Pagne sits on the tiled rim. Her chest squeezes at the thought of him putting this together. She’s been remote since the New Year, prickly and self-contained as a spore.

He appears behind her, grinning. “James. Only the classiest for you, Sonia.”

She sits on the ledge, pats the bubbles with curious fingers. “Champagne glasses would have been classy, James.”

Mulder studies the bottle. “It’s got a screw top, so I think this is more a red Solo cup affair. Or straight from the bottle.“

Their joys are very small these days and she clings to them. “It’s absolutely awful, I love it.”

Mulder, beaming, squeezes her shoulder. “Go ahead and get in, I wanted it all ready for you so you could relax right off the bat.”

Scully stands, her back to the large mirrors. She undresses quickly, trying not to catch her reflection in the small mirror over the sink. She doesn’t want to see her choppy dark hair, the purple smudges under her eyes, her sallow skin and WalMart lingerie. A year and nine months and each glance at her reflection feels like watching a Dana who dropped out of med school to follow a band or wait tables at a truck stop. But she can’t tell her not to do it, she can’t wish it all away, it’s just... she is not suited for life in the bardo.

She climbs over the wide ledge, into one of the curves of the heart, and lowers herself into the bath. The steaming water is decadent after so many cramped showers, and this immersion feels baptismal. Perhaps she can come out fully cleansed, grocery store dye gone, Aphrodite on a bed of foam. The bubbles come up past her chin, making her sneeze. 

Mulder sits next to her, opening the wine. “Oh, whoa, whoa, she's a lady,” he sings, holding the bottle like a microphone.

Scully scowls at him from the tub. “No need for that, thank you.”

“Tom Jones, Scully!”

She puffs bubbles at him, and they stick to his shirt. “Do you have any cups?”

“I was serious about the bottle, I think.” He passes it to her.

She takes a long swig. It’s sickly sweet and too fizzy. She could easily finish it herself. “Get in.”

He looks surprised. “Really?”

“It’s my birthday, you have to do what I say.” Another swallow.

He’s already undressing. “No, no, I don’t mind. I just figured you’d want to marinate alone.”

Mulder, never self conscious, has no concerns about the mirrors. He gets in the other bend of the heart and water overflows onto the carpet. “Oops.”

Scully, already buzzy, passes him the wine.

He takes a long drink, winces. “Good lord.”

“Mm,” she agrees, settling low in the water. It seeps up her chin length hair, making a sleek dark cap around her face.

Mulder puts the bottle down and fishes around in a wicker basket. He retrieves a pink pouf and a tiny bottle of cherry blossom body wash. “Scoot over here.”

She hunches into the corner. “No I’m comfable. ComFORTable.”

Mulder laughs. “How hard did you hit that bottle?” He reaches around to take her by the shoulders and pull her through the water until she’s settled between his knees like a cranky mermaid. He squeezes a pearly dollop of soap on the pouf and begins to wash her back.

“This is soapy water already,” she observes.

“Well, it so happens I just like touching you, so don’t be pedantic.”

She lets her head fall forward as he makes circles on her back, tries not to feel embarrassed about her bony spine and the furrowed landscape of her ribs. She hasn’t been this thin since the cancer hollowed her out, and she never let him see her this way back then.

Back then.

“Got you a little cake, it’s in the fridge,” Mulder says, like he can read her thoughts again.

“Maybe I’ll save you a piece,” she replies. She wants to be cheery for him, a brave little sailor. The body wash makes her think of spring in DC and she sniffs at it.

He drops the pouf to massage her slick skin with his hands. They’re a little calloused now from the kind of rough work he was never bred for. He works his thumbs beneath her scapulae and she wonders if he can unfurl them like wings, let her fly away.

She takes another gulp of wine. “Mulder.”

“Hmm?” His fingers knead her neck, each tight trapezius.

Scully turns in the water to face him, catches a flash of her reflection as she does. Her hair is kelpy, the heavy black eyeliner she wears now smudged about her eyes like Theda Bara.

She kneels between his bent knees. “Nothing.”

Mulder sighs. “I didn’t want it like this either.” He holds his arms out and she rests against his chest. The water sloshes gently around them as he enfolds her, his heart thrumming at her cheek. She imagines this is what the last moments in the womb are like.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles into the wet dark of his body. “This is a really good present.”

His hands are skating over her back again with a washcloth this time. The texture feels good, centering her back into her bones. Sometimes she feels adrift from herself, dissociated, following her own body like a kite.

Mulder strokes her hair and she burrows her face up into his neck, her forearms pressed against his chest. She hopes he won’t sing Happy Birthday like he used to because it will undo her.

He doesn’t, just nuzzles in, whispering sweet nonsense into her ear. “I love you,” he says, in a voice like hot tea on a cold morning. He nibbles her unadorned earlobe.

Scully, who hasn’t wanted sex in over a month (or has it been two?), who has barely wanted to be touched, feels her body stirring. She turns her head, her earlobe chilled, and catches his lips with her own. She tugs at his longish hair, wanting to absorb him and his infinite love and his careworn soul. She nips his tongue.

His response against her thigh is instant and, bless him, he apologizes like a teenager on prom night. All this time and he’s still such a gentleman it might break her heart.

She pulls back, takes his face in her hands. How she loves his face, his autumn woods eyes and his mouth like a Botticelli angel. “Look at me,” she says.

He does, worry in his gaze. “Scully, it’s fine, I know y-“

“Shut up,” she says, with aching fondness. “Please shut up.” She thumbs his bottom lip.

He furrows his brow, uncertain.

Scully lets her legs float up off the bottom of the tub, twists so that she’s straddling his lap, her arms about his neck. “It’s my birthday. You have to do what I say.”

He swallows, still watching her. “As you wish.”

Scully tips her hips forward and he’s inside her, hot and hard and familiar.

Mulder’s eyes close and he murmurs some wordless hindbrain prayer.

There’s almost no leverage, but he’s holding her hips as she rotates them, groaning when she tightens her pelvic floor. She’s wrapped in warmth from the inside out, liquid heat, her breasts crushed to his chest. Water splashes to the floor.

Mulder slides his hands up so that his thumbs are at her waist, his fingers spanning her back. She sighs and leans into the brace of him, her chin tipped up.

He takes her left nipple into his mouth and her shoulders roll back, hands trailing in the water. She exhales hard through her nose. A memory comes to her, Mulder in the tub in Rhode Island, and she recalls even then the fierceness of the unnameable thing she felt for him. Love is such an inadequate word for this.

He’s slowly taken over their rhythm now, pulling her down harder, and she falls away into the dopamine surge. Panting now, belly dipping and rising. Tingling at her sacral spine.

Scully groans in disappointment when he turns his head from her breast. Her areola contracts in the cold, and Mulder runs a hand from her throat to the hot junction of their bodies. She is not long disappointed.

She sees then that he’s looking at the mirror wall, watching, and she’s afraid to do the same but cannot help her curiosity.

Her arched body is a full sail, held up by the mast of Mulder’s arm, rising and falling on an unquiet sea. Even with the glass veined and fogged she sees the slackness of desire in her mouth, her dilated eyes.

In the mirror, Mulder’s eyes are on hers, the face of a mystic in ecstasy. In the mirror she watches his jaw clench and his head roll back. Watches him grind his hips up into hers. He calls out to her god.

She’s dazed, visually overloaded. Scully leans forward to his neck again, biting at it as his fingers continue their steady work between her thighs. The hand that was on her back is on her ass now, and gripping hard.

“You liked watching,” he says at her temple and it isn’t a question, just an observation, but somehow the intimacy of him knowing it trips her over the edge. She’s lightning-struck after so long, her nerves overfiring, and she shudders back into his arms, gulping air.

He traces endless figure eights on her back, or maybe they’re infinity signs. He tells her about a raccoon he saw in the bakery parking lot, eating an entire raisin bread by itself. “It hissed at me when I got out of the car, Scully, and I don’t even like raisins.”

“You’re so brave,” she says. “Just to get my cake.”

“I’d fight a raccoon for you any day.”

When the water gets cold they emerge, ectoplasmic wafts of bubbles trailing behind them to the bed. They can shower later.

Scully, chilly now, wraps herself in the bedspread. She sits cross-legged on the bed like a wise old oracle. “Where’s my cake, please?”

Mulder opens the mini fridge and removes a perfect miniature birthday cake, sprinkles and fudge frosting and a vivid maraschino cherry. She might not save him a piece after all.

He brings her the cake and two plastic forks. A small white box.

“Mulder!” she exclaims. “I thought this was my present, I hope you didn’t really get me anything else.”

He sits next to her on the bed and rubs her back through the heavy comforter. Clears his throat. “It’s, um, it’s not from me, actually. I didn’t just run into a raccoon at the bakery.”

She looks at him in utter bewilderment. “What are you talking about?”

“Open it.”

A strange fear creeps over her as she fumbles with the tape holding the lid on the box. Her fingers are clumsy, numb, but she gets it off at last. Inside is a cheap cell phone, a burner. There’s a Post-It stuck to the front.

“Many happy returns of the day, Scully.

\- Walter Skinner”


End file.
